


can't turn off what turns me on

by junkeroni (hotdammneron)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: "porn" with "minimal plot", M/M, could absolutely be read as a succubus fic and it wouldn't really change anything i don't think, hand in mouth, hey siri define praise kink, jt compher is a mad scientist and he's got beakers and flasks full of concentrated horniness, moderately romantic dick sucking, my inability to write anything without MENTIONING dante fabbro, or something like that, there's a d/s undertone or two, things are not previously negotiated but there is consent in abundance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 16:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17348294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdammneron/pseuds/junkeroni
Summary: So Tyson plays well, racks up the ice time, gets an assist, almost decks McQuaid. JT gives him a quiet little fistbump when he slides into the bench and Tyson has to shove the hem of his shirt into his mouth at 2am to not say JT’s name when he comes.





	can't turn off what turns me on

**Author's Note:**

> molly? posting fic two nights in a row? who would've thought!
> 
> finally overcame my internalized hornyphobia enough to post this. it's a milestone. I've never written "porn" in my life and it probably shows but we're all just here for a good time, so, whatever. unbeta'd. be gentle with me
> 
> my twitter is mollstermash and we're not talking about this

Tyson needs it, sometimes. It’s not, like, some kind of biological imperative or whatever bullshit goes on in those freaky-ass romance novels that The Other Tyson pretends he doesn’t read. It’s just… It feels good to be good. 

Sometimes he just needs to, what, take his brain out of his head and put it through a blender. Metaphorically. Replace all his thoughts and worries and feelings with someone’s dick and just… chill. The Denver night scene’s pretty good for it, nobody gives a shit about him enough to recognize him in the dark of a club. So he goes out some nights, comes back long past when JT and Kerf go to bed with the taste of it still in his mouth, the beat of whatever club music still pounding in his blood. 

There’s - there’s a difference between getting off and getting someone else off, hearing their little gasps and half-spoken praise when he does something right, does something good. Sure, he can be good for himself, but it’s just not the same. It’s stupid. So he goes out, or he stays home and watches the three porn clips he’s ever been able to find that really get him going, and it’s not like, a thing if he zones out sometimes and thinks about how paper thin their walls are when he bites down on his pillow. 

But, like, sometimes he wants to be good for somebody but doesn’t want to leave the fucking apartment, right? And there’s this sharp edge to the thought of it, thinking about, oh, fuck. He doesn’t even know what - well. He can’t be sure what JT would do, but he can sure as hell imagine it. 

So maybe Tyson’s been accused of being a little bit of a flirt, he’s only human. He has needs. And sometimes those needs are to wear stupid shorts that show off his thighs, sometimes he just does dumb shit just to get a rise out of people. Everyone does it. People need attention, it’s just a part of the whole human condition or whatever the fuck Kerf would say. Fucking Harvard, man. 

Anyway. The JT thing isn’t just a JT thing, is the point. Tyson’s like this all the time, it’s not a problem. But, like, sometimes they’re just hanging out and Kerf refuses to move the fuck over on the couch so Tyson has to sit on the floor and he just kind of - what, sits on the floor at JT’s feet while they’re just watching AHS or whatever, and maybe he gets a little horny about that. It’s not like he gets off on it, of course not. That’s part of it, the denial. 

It’s not a JT thing, because he’d be getting worked up about it no matter what. 

Just - maybe not as much. 

 

Tyson has like, stupid pretty hair, obviously. He’d have to be blind to not know that about himself. People like his hair, they like to play with it, maybe pull on it under certain circumstances. It’s like, a whole thing, and sometimes his teammates just tousle his hair a little bit, and it’s fine. Super normal. And it’s like, extra normal when JT does it, gets just a really gentle grip on his hair and tugs it a little bit. They’re friends. It’s friendly, that’s all, and if Tyson ducks his head a little so that it pulls more than it would otherwise, well. In the wise words of Britney J. Spears, that’s just his prerogative. 

 

Tyson gets off thinking about it, a little more than once or twice. It’s not, like, a big thing, but sometimes they’ll play a game and Tyson gets more minutes than usual and JT gives him this little pleased look on the bench, in the car, on the couch later that night. And yeah, Tyson wants to win for a lot of reasons, he wants to do it for the team, but sometimes he wants to win just so JT looks at him like that. Most nights that’s the closest he can get to being perfect without getting on his knees.

So Tyson plays well, racks up the ice time, gets an assist, almost decks McQuaid. JT gives him a quiet little fistbump when he slides into the bench and Tyson has to shove the hem of his shirt into his mouth at 2am to not say JT’s name when he comes. 

 

They’re in the living room when it happens. 

“You were good out there today bud,” JT says, and maybe if Tyson had the wherewithal to laugh at how much of Idiot Canadian Hockey Boy stereotypes they both were he wouldn’t get flustered about it. But he doesn’t have enough brain cells or whatever to be that self aware on the spot, so he flushes instead, tries to will himself out of horniness. Not enough brain cells for that much willpower either, apparently. Exactly enough brain cells to be embarrassingly turned on by simple praise, so that’s a big L for the night. 

It’s a point of personal pride that Tyson doesn’t whimper.

“Thanks, uh, do you,” Tyson mumbles from the other end of the couch, trying to be cognizant enough to not just get on his knees immediately. “D’you wanna order some pizza or something?”

“Sure,” JT says, sounding so faux-neutral that Tyson can’t help but worry. “But I also want to know why you get so embarrassed whenever I compliment you.”

And that’s even worse.

“I just,” Tyson starts, tugging at the drawstrings on his hoodie. It might be JT’s. He’s lost track of the lines drawn around possession by this point. “I dunno. I don’t… compliment well?”

“Alright, well we’re watching Jurassic Park tonight, and we’re talking about your weird praise complex soon, don’t think you’re off the hook here,” JT says, stretching his leg out across the couch to prod Tyson’s thigh. It’s like, JT says he’s off the hook, but not really, just for now. Just for however long JT decides to give him a break, and it’s a little thrill, being so much at his mercy. 

 

“Can I try something?” JT asks halfway through the movie like he doesn’t know Tyson would let him try anything. “You can say no, obviously, and like, tell me to stop whenever, but I just want to try.” 

Tyson nods, quiet, half paying attention to the weird dinosaur faceoff on the TV and half paying attention to how JT is sprawled across the couch, his whole physicality or whatever up in Tyson’s space, and he wants more of it. So he nods, doesn’t think about it. And, god, he can’t tell if that’s a mistake or not when JT gives him this look, all expectant and handsome and stupid and Tyson wants to bite him. 

“Come over here, then,” JT says gently, and Tyson doesn’t - well, he doesn’t quite fall over trying to get across the couch at what feels like the speed of light, but it’s a near thing.

There’s a moment, of course, of adjustment; a tugging of limbs into place, trying to arrange two bodies comfortably onto one part of the sectional, a valiant attempt towards comfort. Once they’re more or less settled, and the movie’s playing again, Tyson’s just - leaning against JT’s chest, casual, more or less on his lap, less casual, one of JT’s hands in his hair and the other arm draped across the back of the couch. Tyson feels like his brain and/or dick is going to short circuit immediately. 

And it’s like, a thing now, apparently, where JT really cares about the dialog in jurassic fucking park, because Tyson talks through movies and, well. Any time he makes whatever little absent-minded nervous comment about the special effects or how stupid Chris Pratt’s character is, because, really, JT tugs on his hair a little. 

Even if it’s already a lot to handle, Tyson’s always been one to push the limits in the stupidest way possible.

“They have like, zero chemistry,” he pipes up after the fifth (fifth!) lingering eye contact incident between Chris Pratt and the blonde woman he forgot the name of, and if he’s a little jittery in anticipation, that’s his own business. “He’s got more with his fuckin’ raptors than this lady who hates him.” 

And that’s, yeah, okay, JT pulls his hand out of Tyson’s hair and he mourns the loss for precisely two seconds before JT’s prodding at his mouth and Tyson has to just, like, let him. He opens his mouth just a little bit, drags his lower lip against the pad of JT’s finger as it goes in, letting his jaw go slack gradually to not bite on instinct. It’s a lot, and Tyson wants to make a show of it, like he’s in the back of Dante’s truck again back in Alberta trying to prove a point, like he’s not on his own couch in fucking Colorado with his roommate’s fingers in his mouth. Like there’s much difference, anyway. 

So he makes a show of it. Fuck playing casual, he scrapes his teeth against JT’s finger, bites down a little, drags his tongue along the fingertip, gets lost in it like he’s doing something else entirely. JT curses behind him, and Tyson is entirely too pleased when he shoves another finger in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, like a warning, like a promise. Tyson nearly calms down under the pressure, letting his head roll against JT’s shoulder, sitting through the last forty minutes of the movie with two of his fingers in his mouth, ludicrously turned on, content enough to just. Sit. 

Somewhere along the line, JT’s hand moves to his thigh, and Tyson wants to scream. It’s a deliberate placement, deliberate motion, and it’s like JT wants him dead, his thumb rubbing in little arcs just horribly close and horribly far from Tyson’s dick, two fingers in his mouth, and Tyson lets himself get lost in it. Fuck Chris Pratt, fuck the dudes who decided to bring back the dinosaurs, Tyson wants everything. 

He’s used to getting what he wants. 

“I need you to be good,” JT says, close to Tyson’s ear, and all Tyson can do is nod and decide that nothing else matters anymore. Everything, literally everything in the goddamn world, playoffs, the Stanley fucking Cup, whatever, all pales in comparison to how much he wants. So he bites JT’s fingers, squirms awkwardly against him until he can grind down even a little, and, okay, good, JT’s into this too. Obviously. 

See, Tyson’s played this game before, he’s tried being blindly obedient and nothing but good, and sometimes? Sometimes, it pays off to be a little bit of a brat. 

He’s right, of course he is, and when JT pulls his fingers out of his mouth he dries them off on Tyson’s thigh, right where his shorts expose skin. It’s disgusting. Tyson loves it. He rolls his head against JT’s shoulder, rubs his cheek against his shirt, always needy, while JT ignores him to change the channel, and it’s almost humiliating how hard it is to sit up with JT’s arm around his waist holding him back. 

He pulls it off, thankfully, and there’s a horrible moment where JT just sits there waiting as Tyson tries to orient himself. The tension all but breaks when Tyson finally sits straddling his lap, all stretched across JT’s thighs, back to this. Whatever this is. 

“You’re a nightmare,” JT says with his hands on Tyson’s waist, and Tyson bites his jaw.

“You love it,” Tyson says back, shifting his weight back to look at JT. “Make me behave.”

“Idiot,” JT says, and Tyson’s ready to defend his truly abysmal IQ when JT pulls him in and kisses him until he can’t think anymore. 

 

“Dude, we hang out on this couch,” JT says when Tyson bites down his chest, pulling him up by his hair, and Tyson doesn’t give a fuck. He knows how stupid he probably looks, Dante always used to make fun of his horny face, but that’s - whatever. Tyson looks stupid. He’s aware of that whole facial situation. 

“And?” Tyson says, pulling a little against JT’s grip on his hair, just for the pull at his scalp, the feeling of it like an electric shock down his spine. 

“I’m not fucking you on our couch tonight,” JT explains with affected patience, and Tyson groans. Maybe another day, then. 

“Take me to bed,” Tyson says, so out of breath, and he nips at the pad of JT’s thumb when he presses it into his lower lip. 

It feels like it takes a lifetime for JT to turn the TV off, and he doesn’t even carry Tyson down the hall with his hands firm and steady under his thighs, or anything that Tyson’s been imagining. Nobody’s perfect. He’ll make JT carry him next time. 

 

Tyson’s on his knees as soon as they reach JT’s bedroom. 

“Christ, dude,” JT says, breathless above him while Tyson presses his forehead into his thigh. And Tyson - god, Tyson wants this so bad he can’t think, can’t fucking process anything but the one point of contact, dead to the world for stimulus with the heat of JT’s thigh through his sweats. Tyson feels like he’s been horny for 57 years. 

And JT, god, he just pushes his fingers through Tyson’s hair, gives it a little tug until he’s got no choice but to tilt his head up and look at him. Whatever’s been said mockingly and ungratefully about his horny face, Tyson knows what he looks like. There’s been nothing but five star reviews, so to speak, when he’s like this. He knows his hair’s a mess, lips shiny and spit-slicked, only thin fabric and a few inches separating him from JT’s dick.

“Will you let me blow you?” he asks, and he knows how to lay it on thick. He drags his teeth across his bottom lip, and JT’s grip in his hair tightens. 

Good. 

“I’ll be good for you, I promise,” he mumbles a little, pulling against JT’s grip in his hair in a fruitless attempt at getting closer. JT’s taller than him by inches, maybe stronger, and he wonders for a second what it’d be like for JT to pin him, pick him up and slam him against the wall just to prove a point. He wonders if he could pick JT up, or if that’d be too much. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” JT says, sounding so reverent, like Tyson dropping to his knees is some kind of blessing, a rarity. Like he couldn’t have had this whenever he wanted since the day they fucking met. Tyson would suck him off in the goddamn pepsi center if JT used the right tone to ask. 

“Please?” Tyson asks, wanting to even just get his hands on him, just to grab his ass and press his face into the crease of his hip and breathe for a little while. JT’s grip in his hair holds firm. “You know how bad I’ve wanted this?” he asks, leaning in as far as he can, one more time. “I want you in my mouth, JT, come on, please?”

“Are you gonna chill out if I let you?” JT asks, bringing his other hand close to brush fingertips over the curve of Tyson’s jaw, down the front of his throat, back up to stick two fingers back in his mouth, grazing teeth. It’s nothing gentle, for a moment so caught in silence, caught in the soft glow of JT’s desk lamp. 

Tyson’s helpless to do anything but nod, and he nearly falls over when JT pulls his hand out from his hair, off balance. He’s got enough control to lean forward, mouth at the head of JT’s dick through his sweats, too impatient to hate the raspy feeling of cotton against his tongue. It’s worth it, really, for the way JT huffs out a breath. 

The process of getting JT’s sweatpants shimmied down to his knees isn’t as laborious as it could be - Tyson’s gone through belts, suspenders, those weird emo hipster jeans with the three buttons, all kinds of shit to get his mouth on a dick. He’s been through worse without complaint, he thinks, brushing his fingers over the shaft of JT’s dick through his shorts, getting his mouth on the head again with less layers in the way. 

And see, it’s different from all the other times, all the other people, Tyson thinks. On an average day, an average hookup, he just gets down to business, lets his mind sort of float away and does what he does best. It’s not like that, he thinks, licking at the wet spot in the front of JT’s briefs one last time before he pulls them down.

He’s all in it, for once, is the point. Sure, his mind wanders, it always does, something about undiagnosed attention issues he’s sort of just used to, but it all comes back to this. The way JT swears under his breath when Tys licks a stripe up his dick, wraps his lips around it with his hand covering what he can’t reach from the start. The way JT’s fingers gravitate right back into his hair, and he pulls off with a disgusting pop to remind JT that he can pull, if he wants to. 

There’s a string of spit stretched out between Tyson’s parted lips and the crown of JT’s dick, and he swipes his tongue out a little at the corner to break it. JT looks dazed above him, and Tyson leans back in, presses a kiss to his hip bone. And he gets back to it, with JT’s fingers tangled in his curls, the gentle tugging keeping him grounded, as if he really needs it this time. He doesn’t do anything particularly fancy, none of the showoff tongue work he pulls out to impress strangers. 

He gets the impression that JT’s pretty blissed out with this however it happens. He’s muttering something incomprehensible that Tyson chooses to interpret as affection, little pet names and sweet words barely audible over his breathing. 

“Fuck, Tys -” JT speaks up, tugging a little on Tyson’s hair like he’s trying to pull him off. Tyson just whines a little, feels how JT’s legs shake at it, presses his tongue flat as he pulls off. There’s a long moment where he just kneels there, drooling a little more than would be ideal down the corner of his mouth. He leaves his mouth open anyway, settling into a rhythm with his hand working down the length of JT’s dick, letting his eyes flutter shut.

“So fucking good for me, baby,” JT mutters, and the head of his dick bumps against the roof of Tyson’s mouth, and Tyson’s got about two seconds of warning before he’s coming. Tys sticks his tongue out a little, because he’s too much himself to not be a showoff about it, and then he’s snapped back into reality and into, like, worrying about JT bruising his knees with how hard he’s dropping to the ground in front of him.

Between one second and the next Tyson’s got a mouthful of JT’s cum, followed by a mouthful of JT’s tongue, kissing him like there’s nothing else he’d rather do, nowhere else he’d rather be but kneeling against his fucking bedroom door. It’s just - fucking hell, Tyson’s turned on, hips canting up for friction against nothing, and JT’s sitting back on his heels and pulling Tyson back into his lap, thank god. 

So, god, Tyson’s ready to burn the fuck up, he could die now and it’d be fine. JT’s got his hand in the front of Tyson’s shorts, working his dick in steady strokes, and Tyson’s tucking his face into JT’s shoulder, nipping and licking at the skin there as he shakes through all of it. 

“You’re so good, so perfect for me,” JT mutters, lips pressed against Tyson’s forehead, and it’s a tipping point, and before he knows it, JT’s pulling his hand away with come webbing between his fingers. Tyson’s only a little too tired to insist on making a show of licking it off, and he settles for whimpering into the hot skin of JT’s neck as he wipes it off on his sweats. 

“You alright?” JT’s asking when Tyson feels a little more coherent, all too aware in the burn of his thighs where they’re spread across JT’s lap.

Tyson just hums some kind of confirmation, sitting back a little to kiss along JT’s jaw, lips catching on stubble. “You’re nice to me, y’know that?” he says, leaning in to kiss JT properly.

“You just tried to drain my life force through my dick,” JT says, and he’s got this little smile, and Tyson has to kiss him again to not go crazy from looking at it. “You deserve nice things, Tys.” 

Tyson bites down a little hard on JT’s lip, lost on responses, and lets JT struggle his way through standing up and hauling him the last few feet to the bed. 

It’s not the first time he’s slept pressed against JT’s side, but it’s the most deliberate. He’s got a pair of JT’s boxers on, too lazy to go down the hall and grab his own, and he shimmies closer under the blankets when JT finally gets into bed, and it’s nice, all of it. 

“You can be rougher if you want,” Tyson says when JT turns out the light, pressing his ass deliberately against what he’s pretty confident is the general area of JT’s dick. “Y’know. Next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” JT mumbles against the back of Tyson’s neck, his lips catching a little against the soft skin there. “Next time. Go to sleep.”

Yeah. Next time.

They’ll hash out the details in the morning, probably.


End file.
